“What if we asked your landlord to sell us his house since you seem to like it so much?” Mom says. “Surely someone who’d leave for a month at a time could find a better place to live. What does he do? I don’t recall you mentioning his job.”
“High school track coach,” I blurt.
Miranda makes a strangled noise.
Shit.
Shit.
Does Dad know every high school track coach? There are like ten public high schools in Copper Valley. At least. Surely he doesn’t know all of them.
Does he?
And when is track season?
Oh my god.
Did I just make up a lie that’s so very obviously a lie because a high school track coach actually works summers?
“Which high school?” he asks.
Crap. Is my face turning red? “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.”
“He a rugby fan?” Dad asks. “I could sweeten the deal. Season tickets. Concession stand coupons. Let him meet the team.”
“I don’t really talk about the team with him.”Lie lie lie. “I mean, we each do our own things.”
Like, he does things with his penis.
I do things with my vagina.
Way, totally different.
Also, I do most of the cooking, and he does most of the entertaining me while I cook.
I give him blow jobs when he does dishes.
He fingers me while I do the dishes.
Completelydifferent.
Mom and Dad are both frowning at me.
“I’m in bed almost the whole time I’m home,” I babble.
Miranda chokes on her mimosa.
I am drowning in absolute mortification. This isn’t going well.
Not at all.
“Because I’m tired all the time,” I add.
“My goodness, my dear, are you okay?” Mom pats Miranda on the back.
“Wrong pipe,” she gasps.
Divert. Divert!“That happened to me once when I was doing a wine presentation on my first cruise, except it wasn’t a mimosa, it was a fly that flew into my throat.”
